Lies and Slander
by Freya-Rhianna
Summary: When Oliver Wood's reputation as a 'wild child' get's out of hand, Puddlemere's manager Snippet devices a plan that has Oliver pretending to be in a committed relationship with fellow player Marcus Flint; all in the hope of clearing his name.
1. Oliver

The light piercing through the blinds was far too bright for this early in the morning.

Instinctively my head burrowed further into the pillow it was resting upon, only to be overwhelmed by the thick scent of a foreign perfume.

Recoiling away from the foul stench, I allowed my eyes to settle on the room around me for the first time since I had awakened only to realise, not for the first time that week, I had absolutely no idea where I was.

Various items of clothing were scattered around the room, all of which implying that I had stumbled upon a females apartment (a theory aided by the flower patterned curtains, and faintly pink covers that were currently layering my body.) and, unless said female had taken to spraying her pillows with a healthy dose of perfume, she had been sleeping (or at the very least lying) next to me not too long ago.

Grinning to myself, I lolled backwards onto the pillow, my arms flung out to my sides in relaxation as I contemplated how long I would have until she returned.

Ultimately I decided I'd better get moving before she does return, aside from the usual clinginess and cries of 'I thought we meant something to each other' that I'd rather avoid, there's also the fact that I had training to go to and Snippet (my manager) would kill me if I was late yet again.

Willing myself away from the bed, I eventually stumbled apart from the covers, faltering only slightly as my foot collided with a stump of the bed.

Swearing to myself, I hobbled precariously on one foot as I inspected the injury, throwing cursory looks at the door to the bedroom all the while just in case my bed-mate of the night before decided to sneak up on me.

Pulling on articles of clothing as I neared the door to the bedroom, it struck me that there was no way I could leave the room without grabbing the girl's attention; I was unfamiliar with the layout of the house, and as such would probably end up surveying every inch of the apartment in search of the exit.

My eyes flickered briefly to the window that stood ajar at the other end of the room, but I quickly cast this idea aside; I didn't need anymore injuries before training later on today.

I pushed the door ajar, only allowing my head to enter the room beyond as I took a quick glance around the apartment. The walls were unusually bare, they were painted a creamy white and only the occasional portraits created any contrasts in colour.

Still, there was no sign of any other life in the apartment and so I figured it was worth the risk to take a step into what I assumed to be the living room.

Almost immediately a voice drawled from behind me "Leaving so soon."

Startled, I span immediately my back connecting with a wall as my eyes darted around the room in search of the source of the noise.

It didn't take me long to spot the perpetrator, who was lounging on an armchair that had previously been out of view, her legs resting over the side of one of the arms while he head was curled to rest on the back of the leather chair.

As I drank in her features, I slowly began to recognise her from the night before. I had met her in a club (I think?) and she'd made some comment about Quidditch players being pathetic, or something to that effect, and apparently the fight that ensured led me to spend the night in her apartment.

The girl yawned obtusely to grab my attention once more, but when I turned to face her, her eyes were focused on the ends of her hair that she was toying with between her fingers.

I stood awkwardly for a few more moments, unsure of whether she had something more to say until she dismissed me with a flick of her wrist.

"The doors in that direction." she nudged her thumb in the direction to my left and, nodding at her huddled form, I took off in the direction she indicated.

The door was already unlocked when I approached it, and it opened with little opposition as I nudged It with the toe of my shoe.

The sunlight from outside flooded my vision, and it took me a few moments to blink back the spots that impaired my vision, at which point the sound of camera's flashing filled my ears.

Grimacing at the sudden onslaught (which quickly transformed into a pleasant smile when I realised that the camera's where pointing in my direction) I realised I would have no choice but to apparate away from the scene.

I scowled at the thought, the sensation as I recalled it was repulsive and my system was certainly not ready for it at this time in the morning, still it sounded better then battling through a sea of reporters and so (making sure that I was securely covered by the crowd of reporters, and away from the prying eyes of muggle's) I screwed up my face in concentration, and hoped beyond hope that I would end up at the destination I had intended.

When I risked opening my eyes once more, I noted with relief that I had emerged inside a room I recognised as belonging to me.

The warm red's and gold's that decorated the room were familiar and comforting, if not a shade too similar to the Gryffindor common room, and I certainly preferred this euphoria of mess to the all-too pristine apartment I had just returned from

I had only bought this apartment recently; an escape from the other flat that lay in the heart of London that had become overrun by Rita Skeeta types who prided themselves on delving into the lives of those who were in the public eye.

I smiled at the pure serene silence that engulfed my senses as I walked leisurely to my bedroom with the intention of uncovering my Puddlemere training kit that I had abandoned last night and left unwashed to stew on my bedroom floor.

No sooner had I recovered the offending items did a second bang fill my ears.

Wincing at the sound, I ran a mental list through the numbers of people who knew how to bypass the security charms that I had set up around my flat.

I had long since cut off my team mates, who had taken to raiding my flat in the dead of night and scavenging what supplies I had, and my manager would hardly bother coming to my flat for all the effort it took, which only really left…  
>"Oi, Wood." Brilliant.<p>

Rolling my eyes, I retraced my steps back into the living I had just left in time to see Sarah splay herself regally across one of the couches I had grown particularly fond of.

Hissing in unvoiced complaint as she propped her feet up at one end, I settled down on a nearby couch waiting to hear whatever it was she wanted to say.

"How you been Ollie?" She asked, in feigned interest as she examined the fraying material of my couch.

"What do you want?" I replied, wanting her to cut to the chase so I could get her out of my apartment sooner.

"can't a publicist drop by to see their favourite client every now and again?"

"you can't." was the biting reply I left her with, feeling oddly proud of myself as I settled further into my chair.

"Tch, you think so little of me." there was mock offence in her tone as she smiled to herself "as it was however, there is something I want to talk about with you." she paused as if waiting for me to interject a comment.

I indicated for her to go on once the silence had stretched on an unreasonable amount.

"I take it you've seen these?" I shook my head as she retrieved a few wads of paper from the handbag I hadn't even realised she had with her.

Unfolding the papers, I recognised the headings almost immediately. One was entitled 'witch weekly' and was a cacophony of sickly pinks and obnoxious love hearts that zoomed around the front cover, another had the words 'Daily prophet' splayed across it's heading. In all cases the papers all had something in common; Pictures of me in various incriminating states. Granted Witch Weekly had set aside an entire spread based around it, whereas the Prophet vaguely mentioned it as it skimmed over the declining reputation of Quidditch players.

"It would rather seem you're reputation proceeds you," Sarah commented dully, indicating one particular image that had me with my lips attached to a scantily clad female, while another was attacking my neck with kisses and bites.

"and?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as I set the paper down on the coffee table beside me.

"As your publicist, I advise you to stop with all of this." she gestured in the general direction of the article once more "at the moment, this may be all well and good, but people are going to forget about your actual Quidditch abilities, and you'll begin to lose favour with your fans and as a result managers and team-mates are probably going to mistrust you, and with any slight whim of hate amongst the media boom. Career over." by the end of the rant her cheeks had grown a little flushed through lack of taking in air.

"And as my friend? What would you advise then?"

Sarah let out a snort of laughter "don't flatter yourself Wood, I'll try to do some damage control over this, see If I can get a couple of these stories out of print over legality reasons, invasion of privacy and what not, but until I can; don't do anything stupid. I'm counting on you man, both of our jobs depend on it."

* * *

><p>"Wood," Snippet growled, thrusting the daily prophet beneath my nose.<p>

Wincing as I recognised the issue, I dared not meet the eyes of my manager who looks fit to burst as he glares down at me.

"What about it?" The snarl that ripped through Snippet's throat was feral and inhuman; so much so that I launched myself away from the desk in surprise, desperate to create as much distance between me and the possibly mental manager.

"Do you realise how badly this reflects on the Quidditch world as a whole? Do you realise how much this tarnishes our reputation?" He punctuated each point with a finger that was jabbing the air between us "We are treading on thin ice as it is, what with the ministry of magic breathing down our necks. It would be advisable to tread lightly." his last words were drawn out for effect, but by this point I was no longer paying attention as my eyes were still focused on the image before me.

I recognised the face of the girl I had left the apartment of earlier on; these photographs must have been taken last night. It was scary how quickly things got around within the media.

I felt a sudden pang of guilt as I realised how hard this is going to be for Sarah to reign in, but the feeling only laster a fleeting second before it was gone again.

Instead of commenting further, lest I provoked the more violent side of Snippets nature, I slid further back into the chair with trepidation, my breathing steadying as I realised Snippet had calmed down somewhat , and so (my hands poised to protect my face is necessary) I hazarded a question:

"What do you want me to do about it?"

Snippet sighed as he collapsed into the desk chair opposite the one I was sat in; his hands steepled as he thought, his eyes closed and his lips pursed into a tight line.

"I've been thinking about this, and I can only think of one solution."

I prompted him to go on, slightly wary of whatever conclusion he had reached.

"We want to promote a side of you that promises a much more stable nature; a side that gains you favour with the public once more. To do this, I think we are going to have to put forward this idea that something has changed you...something that had encouraged you to slow down and take a more responsible view on life."

"How do you propose we go about doing that?" I asked skeptically, one eyebrow rising.

"You are going to have to do something that takes a lot of concentration and effort, not to mention secracy, even to those around you. I wouldn't ask it of you, if I hadn't thought it necessary."

Having efficiently grabbed my interest, I lent across the desk, intrigued.

"You are going to have to pretend you are in a committed relationship." I was momentarily surprised, but allowed the man to finish. "we couldn't afford getting someone from a different team involved, that could be disastrous, and we want someone we could keep an eye on...someone who would stand to lose just as much if you were to fall and take Puddlemere down with you. It will have to be someone from our team."

I contemplated his words for a few moments, my forefinger scratching across my chin as I thought "That sounds...strangely reasonable in a bizarre way...but..." My voice trailed off as a thought struck me "there are no females on our team."

Snippets features morphed into a sad smile that looked suspiciously fake.

"I know."


	2. Marcus

**Sorry that this took so long, exam years and what not _ still, I'm quite pleased with the way this story is going (: and even more pleased by the response this story has recieved 8D thank you so much everyone who had reviews, alerted, and favourited the story 3 I really appreciate it (:**

* * *

><p>"Dull," A voice declared from the sofa. Montague faltered slightly in the door way, his eyes flickering across the apartment in search of the source of the noise, before they ultimately landed on the figure that was splayed out regally across the sitting room furniture.<p>

Shrugging with an air of resignation, Montague settled onto the chair opposite the sofa with barely another glance in the others man's direction.

Marcus was clearly not satisfied with this level of attention, and so when his mere presence didn't garner him any, he resorted to tapping rhythmically on the wooden frame of the sofa.

"Yes?" Montague asked eventually, his eyes rising from the daily prophet that he had balanced on his lap only to shoot Marcus a barely-interested look.

"aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" Marcus demanded, feeling slightly let down by his friends lack of interest in his woe's.

Montague contemplated his words for a few moments, before coming to the conclusion that he was not. His voiced musings where met with a deflated sigh.

"Fine, if you want to be that way…" Marcus was already grinning before Montague got round to probing him for an explanation.

The question he had been prompting for however, invoked a negative reaction from Marcus, if his altering stature was anything to go by.

The previously arrogantly positioned arm that accommodated his head, slid from the arm of the chair until it was resting on his chest, the fingers that extended from his palm were playing with the zips on his coat that he hadn't bothered to remove since he broke into his friends flat.

Instead of supplying an actual answer, Marcus merely nodded his head pointedly in the direction of the daily prophet (that Montague was still clutching, and yet hadn't had time to actually start reading) with clearly the intention of prompting Montague to read the article that held relevance to Marcus' current demeanour.

Frowning at his friend, Montague complied to his non-verbal wishes and, with a logically thought out process of elimination, flicked straight through the paper to the sports section.

His eyes immediately fell upon an expressive caricature of a hinky-punk swinging its lantern at a Dementor, but Montague didn't have time to read the caption before his attention was captured by the heading:

"_Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin."_

The end of the war had seen no change for the attitudes towards the Slytherin's, not that montague had expected anything different, and this article was a perfect example of the tensions between the houses that should have been left behind and put down to childish feuds a long time ago.

A good paragraph or two was spent criticising the ministry of magic's method of dealing with ex-death eaters (and the Slytherins that had been encompassed under the same umbrella by the journalist), and as far as Montague could see, whomever had written the aforementioned article, was merely using ambiguous language to disguise the clear lack of genuine reasons.

Montague must have read at least half a page of the discriminating bull-shit before he finally realised how Marcus was related to the article.

"Shit Marc." He murmured, his eyes rapidly scanning the words left-to-right as he fought the urge to hurl the paper into the nearest fire.

The journalist (who Montague made a note to find out the name of) had begun shamelessly attacking Marcus over his recent divorce, a touchy subject at the very least, whilst consistently making references to the short, but no-less harsh, time he had spent in Azkaban when his family and himself had been under inspection in the months following Voldermorts death.

The article then went on to accuse Marcus of using his recent signing to Puddlemere to bring himself back into public favour, which (the article claimed) was almost counter-productive in that it only brought to light the conflict that seemed to shadow Flint's every move (including his relationships towards his team-mates).

Marcus was scowling darkly at the carpet when Montague cast a look in his direction, and although he disagreed with each and every accusation made by the paper, he couldn't quite help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at his friend's child-like expression.

"It seems like you're not the only one the papers are interested in." Montague said, waving the front page of the paper in the air to emphasise his point.

"Wood actually deserves that on though," Marcus pointed out with a slight mutter of 'unfair'.

Montague inclined his head to one side "I take it working with him has done nothing to improve your views towards him?"

Marcus shrugged, "He seems every bit as arrogant and foolhardy as he was back at Hogwarts, I'm just not allowed to do anything about it anymore."

Montague grinned at his words; it was nice to know that some things hadn't changed despite everything that had happened.

"What are you going to do about this?" Montague asked, bringing the focus of the conversation back to it's original purpose.

Marcus shrugged, "Not a clue," he replied honestly, the announcement only encouraging the frown that shadowed his features.

"well, what do you want me to do about it?" Montague probed.

Marcus shrugged for a second time, this time though he swung his legs round the side of the sofa so his body was pointing at Montague.

"You work for the Quibber, right?"

Montague's face fell at the reference to his recent employment; since the ending of the war, and his father's imprisonment he had found himself at a loose end in life, and was soon swept up in the endless struggle of interviews and applications that ultimately turned up no opportunities; that was until he was caught by Xenophilius Lovegood, who he had met by chance when scouring diagon alley in search of a vacancy.

The man had rightfully concluded that he had no choice but to accept any job offers he could, and so he soon found himself leafing through raw copies of the Quibber for a decent wage that, really, he had no right to complain about.

Still, it took Graham a good few months before he admitted his new job; and by admitted, I mean forcefully unveiled, still he had been finding the Job a great deal more interesting than he would care to admit.

"So?" Montague inquired, raising an eyebrow at his dark haired friend.

"Couldn't you write something that puts me in a better light?" Marcus' voice was border lining pleading by this point, and Graham couldn't help but feel slightly sympathetic towards the man, still the point still stood;

"I work for the Quibbler…nothing published in that magazine could possibly aid someone in gaining favor in the public's eyes. Everyone thinks that magazine is a load of crap, remember?"

Marcus chewed his lower lip as he thought, clearly caught in some kind of internal dilemma as his lips formed words that Graham could not hear, until eventually he concluded "you're probably right, much less an article written by a fellow Slytherin." Marcus waved his hand in Graham's general direction to emphasis his point.

Graham opened his mouth to contribute a little more to the conversation, but a dull thud resounding from a nearby closed window cut him off.

The initial thud almost immediately transformed into a rhythmic clicking of talons against the pane of glass, and although his muscles screamed at him to not move, Montague rose from the chair and towards the aforementioned window. His wand had been left in his coat pocket, and so he was forced to manually unclasp the latches on the window, and push the pane of glass upwards.

A tawny owl immediately swooped into the apartment, and took residence on the sofa behind Marcus' head. Flicking out it's claw impatiently, the owl awaited the scroll of parchment to be unwound before taking off once more.

Sliding the roll of parchment open, Marcus' eyes scanned across the handwritten words as Montague watched on with barely an ounce of interest. Suddenly Marcus threw himself upwards from the chair; his eyes wide and panicked.

"What's wrong?" Graham asked, his eyes flying to the abandoned letter that still lay at the foot of the sofa.

"I'm bloody late for Practice."

And with a slight bang, he was gone.

* * *

><p>It had taken longer than Marcus thought it would to locate wearable clothes for Quidditch (normally it would be an easy task; a simple matter of finding the Puddlemere uniform, alas Marcus had left his uniform in the Changing rooms at Puddlemere's stadium after the last home game against the Tutshill tornadoes, and so that hadn't been an option.)<p>

With one last glare sent in the direction of his apartment's muggle clock (a rather humorous contraption, Adrian had thought when purchasing it for his friends) that now informed Marcus that he was a good half an hour late, Marcus tugged his Jumper over his head.

Swearing under his breath all the while, Marcus apparated to the outskirts of the stadium, and took off at a run past the entrance gates.

"Snippet's going to kill you." Benjy (the team seeker) whispered as he passed, with an air of knowing as if he too had been in that position far too often, still there was no trace of sympathy just a sort of detatched amusement at his predicament.

Marcus got on well enough with Benjy, there was a sense of friendship present in their relationship dynamic, albeit sometimes strained, but it was enough for Marcus who at least could get along admirably with the other man.

Nodding in his general direction as he passed, Marcus's stride slowed significantly as he approached the door to Snippet's office; it was far grander than the surrounding corridor, with a gold plating that informed every one of its (or rather, Snippets) importance.

Knocking tentatively on the wood of the door, Marcus shifted onto the balls of his feet as he awaited permission to enter.

"Ah, Flint." Snippet's smile was slightly too warm to be considered natural for the short tempered man, but Marcus' was in no place to complain for his sudden good-natured behaviour.

Stepping into the office, Marcus allowed himself to be maneuvered into the seat opposite the large desk that dominated the office, and there he sat (slightly on edge) as he tensed expecting Snippet to start yelling at any moment.

Unusually, the politeness Marcus had been greeted with persisted throughout Snippets mannerism, and he was even offered a mug of Butterbeer (which Marcus declined through fear of poison.)

"So Marcus…" Snippet began, but his voice trailed off as he realised he had no small talk prepared for the ex-Slytherin.

An awkward silence engulfed the pair, a silence only broken by the occasional scuffling of his feet on the carpet beneath his chair. Eventually the silence proved to be too tedious and, lacking a better way of broaching the topic, Snippet launched straight into his intentions.

"Look Flint," He said, pushing the daily prophet closer to where he was sat, "You and I both know that the public opinion towards you is hardly friendly, and that could damage your career un-necessarily; something you and I both want to avoid at any cost. You're a good player Marcus, and we need you if we have any chance of winning the league this year, I'd hate to see the media take that away for you, away from us." Marcus' frown deepened as he took in Snippets words, his eyes falling to the newspaper title as he thought.

"What do you want me to do?" Marcus asked, his whole body slumping in his chair as the frustration he had been harboring came gushing out "It's not as if I can just walk outside and say; 'hey guy's, I'm nice now just so you know, and I promise I wasn't evil' it doesn't quite work like that."

Snippet nodded, "Yes, I'm aware of that. If it was that simple we would have done that along time ago."

"It's been bothering you for a while then?"

"Very much so," Snippet admitted.

"So you have a plan then?" Marcus demanded.

"Of course," Snippet's face revealed nothing more than a slightly impassive façade as he looked Marcus in the eye.

"This is not going to be great for any of us; least of all you and him," Marcus wanted to ask who he was talking about, but decided it best to hold his tongue "but we have run out of choices."

When he showed no signs of elaborating, Marcus prompted him to go on.

"As you may, or may not be aware, Wood has been falling out of public favour recently also, and it would be in Puddlemere's interests to have a reformed public view on him as well as yourself. This puts us rather in a decent amount of trouble, after all, two rouge team members hardly reflects well on us."

Marcus scowled at the use of the word 'Rouge' he had, after all, done nothing wrong.

"But then, a drastic alter of personality and lifestyle won't be easy to achieve either, luckily for us there's one thing the media can be relied upon for; propaganda. Give them half an inch and they'll take it a mile, and even more lucky then that I actually have an in at witch weekly, which could be a way of introducing the change."

"The change?"

Snippet hushed Flint with a slight look that reinforced his authority over the younger man.

"If there's another thing the Media can be trusted for, it's transforming the simplest of actions into a twisted caricature of it's true nature; usually this would be a hindrance, but I think we could use it to our advantage. Once the papers –using my 'associate' as a mediator, of course- get hold of the relationship story, we can only hope it plays out the way I'd hope."

"Excuse me , perhaps I heard you wrong but…relationship?"

"Ah the slight hitch in the plan." Snippet confided, his voice unusually sympathetic.

Pushing away from the desk, Marcus paced the floor before it, his eyes were hard to read (hidden, as they were, by the shade of hair that hid his features) and his pace was slow and calculated.

"It won't last longer than is entirely necessary, and I'm not going to expect anything of you that puts you in a tricky situation."

Marcus could hear the broken promises in that utterance already, but didn't comment on it.

"This could mean the make or break of your entire career, the twenty five years you've spent devoted to the sport; thrown away."

"Fine, I'll do it." Marcus announced, with a fierce determination.


End file.
